


Silence

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Prompt Fic, Sad, Yeah I don't know what tags to use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:13:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3540815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock always thought that looking at his own grave stone was strange, but when a ghost shows up he's not entirely sure how to handle it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Fic based on the song 'Trees' by Twenty One Pilots, and dedicated to @dmitri.tippens.krush_nic, who gave me the prompt. Thank you, @dmitri.tippens.krush_nic! 
> 
> P.S - You can find them on Instagram :)

There was bird faeces on him. It was splattered across his front in a long, straight, white line that couldn't have been more insulting if it tried. There was none on the back however, which was speckled with salty raindrops as they began to tumble down from the greying sky. At least he could be thankful for the fact that the rain stood a good chance of washing the bird-induced vandalism off. He supposed that he'd look rather odd if he suddenly showed up with a tub of soapy water and started scrubbing himself clean of the nasty streak. 

Sherlock Holmes sighed, burying his hands deeper into his pockets and nuzzling his chin into his scarf. Standing in front of one's own gravestone wasn't exactly what he'd call a pleasant experience. In fact, he would highly recommend not being in that situation at all. It was very peculiar, but more than that it was down right frightening. 

It bore so many wrongs. No matter how many lies had been told about him, the one that troubled him the most was the one sitting in front of him. It was served as a constant reminder to him, every single day, that what he'd done was wrong. He knew it served a greater purpose, otherwise he wouldn't have done it in the first place, but as the gravestone grew older, the time it had been since he'd last spoken to John Watson did the same. 

He grimaced as he recalled the last phone conversation he'd had with him. He'd been desperate to tell the truth, utterly desperate. But John would never have gotten on with his life if he'd known that Sherlock wasn't actually dead. He'd have waited. Waited for so long and Sherlock couldn't even be sure of his return. Several foreign gangs wanted his head, while a few more just wanted to see him come to harm. He wasn't any safer in England, but there was something about standing on British soil that made his paranoia ebb away. 

Sighing deeply, and cursing for feeling sorry for himself; Sherlock made his way slowly across the rain flecked grass towards a bench. Behind the bench lay a thicket of beech trees. The branches over hung limply and swayed lightly, despite there being very little wind. 

However, before he'd even properly made it to the bench the crackle of brisk footsteps drawing closer down the pebble path caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. 

He turned around, and the outline of a figure practically marching toward the gravestone he'd previously been standing at came into focus. 

It stopped abruptly and surveyed the bird poo; Sherlock thought he might crumple. He made a mad silent dash behind the bench and towards the base of one of the beech trees, hiding behind it's trunk and concealed by the dainty leaves. 

Sherlock's breathing was heavy, but he couldn't owe it to the short sprint. Standing a mere ten metres away was John, in the flesh. Since the dreaded escapade with Moriarty, Sherlock had only seen John once - and that was at this graveyard too. Now today, two years the anniversary of his death, John was standing there plain as day. And he still looked as hurt as ever. 

The rain was falling heavier now, and Sherlock thanked an unknown deity that he was concealed by the trees. He longed to clear his throat; make a noise of any kind, but he knew that he must remain silent and undetected by John.

It seemed however, that John was doing the same thing. Sherlock had watched him closely, and from what he could make of it John hadn't uttered a syllable since arriving at the gravestone. His red scarf was flapping around his neck as the wind picked up, but he made no attempt to control it. He was just standing there, scowling at the bird poo.

Sherlock sat down and pulled his knees up to his chin, wrapping his arms around his body and leaning up against the bug infested trunk. He was just drinking John in. Every single aspect of him, before he had to leave again for who knew how long. 

Sherlock was fidgeting in his hidden position. He was longing to go up to John. He wanted to wrap his arms around him and never let go. He wanted to feel his breath against his skin. Check his pulse, to make sure that he was really there and not just a phantom. It was like seeing a ghost, but then he remembered that he was supposed to be the ghost. Not John.

John shuffled his feet about awkwardly. Sherlock watched hopefully, full of awe at the man standing in front of him. When he allowed himself to get so soppy over another human being? He was happy to watch; to see John again with his own eyes was something he'd wanted for a long time. The thought of John was what had kept him sane throughout his adventures. Although he felt that some of John was also accountable to some of the madness inside of him. 

He wanted to go and talk to him. To tell him that he was alive, and that this madness could stop. How much had John changed? Within the time span of two years? Was he still adventure crazed and a little bit grumpy? Or had they both ceased to be a characteristic of John Watson? Sherlock wanted to know. He wanted to get to know John Watson again. It was horrible, knowing that John was getting on with his life- perhaps still mourning his death but nevertheless surviving and thriving. Sherlock was just stuck. Stuck constantly in an endless void of trivial cases and going undercover. He wanted to drop it all and get to know John again. But that option was feasible. 

He'd allowed his mind to wander, but his eyes were still fixed heavily on John, who seemed to be building up the courage to say something. He didn't look at ease, at any rate. Then, just as Sherlock thought that John was about to speak, the man pivoted 180 degrees and started marching sharply in the opposite direction. Why hadn't he said anything?

Sherlock was starting to panic. John was leaving. He knew, of course, that John would have to leave eventually, but he felt himself dying all over again as the footsteps grew distant. The overwhelming urge to run up and throw himself at the shorter man was taking him over, and Sherlock stood up, ready to pounce out from the tree line.

But his stubbornness was too strong, and something pulled him back. He still had work to do.

So he remained standing there, watching John Watson walk away, while standing silent in the trees.


End file.
